


Tell My Heart To Lie

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Exes, F/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 09:31:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17485619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: The great hall is packed with people she doesn’t know or hasn’t even heard of before today, the vows are fake and manufactured and the priest’s voice gets grating after the first hour. Even the kiss is awkward despite her and Bellamy sharing several in the past. This one just feels like the two of them bumping mouths together because they had no other choice.But it’s done.It takes a whopping four hours but it’s finally over.Clarke now has a husband.A husband whom she can’t stand the slightest.





	Tell My Heart To Lie

**Author's Note:**

> BFF fill for the prompt: Bellarke arranged marriage wedding night
> 
> Did this spiral out of control? Yes. Do I regret it? Not quite. Also shout-out to Meha for putting up with my insufferable ass messaging her at all hours and giving me some very insightful opinions <3

She thinks that if she stares at the door any longer it might burst into flames.

“You’re going to wear a hole in the ground if you keep pacing like that,” says her mother from where she sat outside the doors to the chamber. She had the servants bring her a chair, where she sat, back straight and hands folded in her lap as they fanned her, offering fruits and wine every few minutes.

Her mother frowns as she takes in Clarke’s appearance. “Not to mention that you’re ruining your hair.”

“I don’t think my betrothed is going to withdraw the offer of marriage because my hair is a mess,” she scoffs, continuing to pace. Like her mother, she was also brought a chair to sit on but couldn’t find it in herself to be still for more than a few seconds, too jittery from nerves.

It’s strange that the contents of her very own  _ marriage  _ are being hammered out on the other side of that door and she isn’t even allowed to sit in the room. 

Her father is in there, as well as her soon to be husband. Even Wells is in there alongside all their top advisors.

But then again, it wasn’t just marriage that the delegation from Illyria came to discuss. No, this was a tactical mission where both sides had something to gain. Tensions have been growing amongst the northern clans and though Arkadia is not directly part of the peace treaty, their alliances with the clans are too entangled to not be dragged into this mess eventually. And though Arkadia may be rich, its citizens happy and healthy with more than enough food and medicine to go around, its military won’t stand a chance against the bloodthirsty clans from the north.

Meanwhile Illyria has an army that’s half the size of Arkadia’s but nearly twenty times as powerful. 

It’s a pretty straightforward deal. Arkadia gets military support and Illyria can finally stop implementing strict rations on to its people. Clarke’s marriage to the Illyrian king was just the pretty ribbon to hold it all together.

“Remember to smile whenever his attention is directed towards you,” her mother says, pouring herself a glass of wine. “And remember that you are to be seen, not heard. No man likes a wife with a loudmouth.”

“Mmm. And tell me mother, should I also agree to it when he insists on keeping his mistresses in the room next door? Should I forget the whole wedding entirely and just go up to his rooms and spread my legs? After all, I’m sure an heir would solidify this alliance more than any marriage could,” she says with a roll of her eyes.

“You  _ insolent  _ child,” her mother hisses, trying to swat at her. “You should be grateful that any king would want to marry you in your state,  _ used  _ and almost too old for him. At your age I was already married and with child.”

“Charming,” she says, flat, even though the words did sting a little. Her mother was right; at twenty, veering on twenty one, Clarke is old by royal standards. She should be grateful that despite her age and even after her past indiscretions, a king would still be willing to marry her.

She just wished it wasn’t  _ this  _ king in particular.

Just then the doors to the chamber room opened and both Clarke and her mother ceased all movement.

“Your majesty,” a servant bows to her mother. “Your highness.” He bows to her. “They’re ready for you.”

Clarke stands up straight, chin up and shoulders back as she follows her mother into the royal chambers where she’s only been a handful of times.

Her father is sitting at the head of the table on his gilded throne and Wells is seated to his left, with his father to the left of him, too. On the other side sits the Illyrian king and his diplomats. His face is a cool mask, indicating no pleasure or displeasure in her appearance, though she does catch the small, quick flickering of his eyes as he appraises her, first her body and then his gaze snaps onto hers.

General--  _ King _ , she corrects herself quickly-- Bellamy Blake hasn’t changed much since she saw him last, two years ago.

His dark curls are shorter than last time and he’s grown out some questionable facial hair. He’s still handsome, with high cheekbones and a full mouth and the long eyelashes that the most unworthy of men seem to blessed with. His shoulders are broader now, arms a bit more muscular and he fills out his uniform wonderfully. He bears no marks of a king; wears no crown like her father, no heavy capes like many nobles she’s met before. 

If she hadn’t known better she would think that he was the same General she bumped into on the shores of the City of Light all those moons ago.

Clarke absolutely hates how her heart twinges at the first sight of him, a dull, radiating pain that comes from the centre of her chest that has her wanting to throw the blasted thing away.

Instead she breaks their stare, swallowing thickly as she bows. “Your royal majesty.”

There’s no emotion in his voice when he says, “Princess.”

The servants appear out of nowhere, carrying two chairs for both her and her mother. Her mother sits to her father’s left as Wells makes room, and the other chair is placed on Bellamy’s left for her.

She gingerly sits, taking care not to touch any part of him. He’s never been very tall from what she can remember but now, for some reason, he seems huge and hulking as he sits next to her. Like he can break her with just his pinky.

Clarke shudders.

The servants bring out dinner and Clarke remains quiet as the men around her talk about meaningless things like the weather and trade routes and what kinds of crops are flourishing at this time of the year. Even her own mother interjects from time to time, laughing at the poor attempts at humour and playing the part of doting wife perfectly.

Meanwhile Clarke cannot even bear to look at the man she’s been engaged to. 

Everytime she sees his hand in her periphery she thinks of that same hand holding hers, gripping her waist, her thighs, her hips, the feel of his rough calluses against her skin. Everytime he speaks she remembers that same deep, rumbling voice saying her name, feeling its vibrations against her sternum. He still smells the same too, like sandalwood and lemon and salt, and she remembers how the scent used to linger on her skin and clothes and hair, how she carried it with her for weeks after she left.

Everything he does reminds her of the past and it takes all of her willpower not to crack right there in the council’s chambers.

She thought she could handle this.

Eventually, after the dinner plates are cleared, she can no longer hide from her fiance. They are expected to mingle and the looks her mother keep throwing her way mean that if she doesn’t stop hiding in a corner with Wells, she’ll drag her over to Bellamy herself.

Still, she waits about ten more minutes before walking over to him, during which she downs two and a half cups of wine and her mother’s glares could probably cut glass.

“Your majesty,” she says again, slipping into a deep curtsey.

“Princess,” he says, still using that cold, detached tone. There is no follow up to that, no ‘you can call me Bellamy,’ no questions for her to answer, not even a cutting statement about their previous indiscretions, and the silence leaves Clarke floundering.

“Are you liking your visit?” she asks after an awkward moment of quiet. 

He nods once. “The country is beautiful though my company leaves much to be desired.”

She winces slightly at that and feels the embers of her temper being fanned.

“I like to think that desirable company is only as much as its other half,” she says. “A conversation flows both ways.”

The tic in his jaw is the only indication that her statement bothers him as his face remains expressionless. “Maybe, but all the conversation in the world cannot help when one’s company is,” he pauses, looking her up and down disinterestedly, “Dull.”

Clarke bites her tongue to keep from saying something she shouldn’t, even as her temper burns bright. She wants to snap at him, to remind him that he didn’t find her company dull when he was visiting her bed almost every night while they were on the island together, but keeps it all bottled up.

He’s clearly expecting her to react judging from the glint in his eyes so instead she pastes a fake smile on her face. It throws him for a loop and Clarke reminds herself that there will be plenty of time for yelling and hurling insults at her husband in private after they’re married. But for now she just smiles and says,

“Well, I do hope that you aren’t stuck with dull company for too long. It can grow to become the most painful.”

And with that she bows again, this time more mockingly than the last before heading up to her chambers where she seethes about it for the rest of the night.

It’s safe to say that at this point, Clarke Griffin would rather gnaw off her arm than marry Bellamy Blake.

* * *

 

_ City of Light- 2 years ago _

As far as punishments go, this isn’t all too bad.

The City of Light-- more of a small island than a city really-- is a day’s trip south of Arkadia and, more importantly to her parents, out of prying eyes.

The story was that she was going to see about her ailing aunt, get the estate in order before she passed, and eventually take over. And while most of it was true-- she did have an ailing aunt and she was staying on the estate, temporarily in charge-- the will had been sorted out since her parents’ marriage and she’s only in charge in theory.

Clarke met Finn Collins when she was seventeen, a few months after her debutante ball was hosted, and she fell in love.

Well, she believed it was love back then. Now she knows it to be nothing but passing infatuation at best and a distasteful affair at worst.

As a woman, she wasn’t set to inherit the throne-- that honour would go to Wells-- so who she married wasn’t that much of a deal. Her husband would possess no legal powers, he would not live in the castle and he would have no sway over Arkadian law. All he was entitled to was a handsome dowry and an even more handsome inheritance after her father passed.

Finn Collins, at the time, seemed like a good choice. He was from a respectable family, his father worked in the castle helping to maintain the grounds and his mother was a nurse. They weren’t noblemen themselves but he had several connections to them, from cousins to uncles to a grandfather on his mother’s side.

He was a good choice on paper and in person, well, he had a way with words and Clarke was easily swayed with the flowers he snuck into her rooms and the trinkets he left in the library. To Clarke it seemed like he had given her the whole world and when he asked he to do more than chaste kissing hidden in the shadows of the palace’s orchard, she agreed. After all, they were going to be married. What was the point in waiting?

Apparently the point in waiting was so that you could find out if your suitor was courting another girl.

Or three others in his case.

Her parents stopped them from seeing each other at once but Finn had a big mouth and telling everyone that you fucked the country’s princess isn’t something most men would keep a secret.

Her father bought his silence of course and then further threatened his family but the damage to her reputation was already done. There were already whispers of Princess Clarke’s purity throughout Arkadia and its surroundings.

Her mother didn’t speak to her for a week.

And then when she finally did speak to her, it was to tell her that she is going by her aunt, no questions asked.

And that’s how Clarke ends up in the City of Light.

It’s a small sleepy island, with no more than a thousand people inhabiting it but was considered a neutral zone for most countries despite the fact that it fell under Arkadia’s governance. It served as a hub for information trade because down here no one cared who you are or what country you were from and everyone wanted to make a quick buck.

Clarke develops a sort of routine within her first few days there.

She always spends the mornings on her aunt’s estate, drawing or painting or doing something of the sort. Then around mid morning she grabs a snack from the kitchens before heading into town. She’s been offered a freedom here that she isn’t as lucky to have back home. The island only has one port of entry/exit and it’s the only part of it that’s so heavily guarded with at least three different checkpoints before even boarding a ship. She still has to walk with a guard of course when she leaves the house, but unlike in Arkadia, they’re both in plain clothes and he doesn’t insist on encroaching on her personal space.

There’s always something fascinating in the town to explore, a new shop to wander through, a new dish to try, a new person to meet.

By the end of her second week she’s tried most restaurants in the town but she keeps coming back to this small hole in the wall that serves hand pulled noodles and a stew unlike any other she’s tasted, both spicy and sweet at the same time.

It’s here that she meets him for the first time.

On the surface he looks like any other tourist that visits the island: dark, freckled skin, mussed hair, clad in soft pants and a shirt with a jacket thrown over it. He’s muscular but not overly so, and there’s something about him that has her fingers itching for a sketchpad.

When he shifts to lean against the counter his jacket falls open at the handle of a knife glints in the sunlight for the quickest of seconds before it’s hidden again and she finds herself more intrigued than ever.

A quick glance at her guard shows that he either didn’t notice or doesn’t care, too engrossed in a book, so Clarke finishes the last of her meal and heads back to the counter to hand in her plate. Jacket guy is still there perusing the menu and she saunters right up to him.

“The fish is good,” she says, glancing at him sidelong, “Fresh. And that’s coming from someone who completely abhors seafood.”

“I see,” he says with a slight smirk. “What are you, some sort of food connoisseur?”

“Among other things,” she shrugs. “It looked like you could use some help since you’ve stood there for the past five minutes. I’m just offering my expert advice.”

“And do you offer your expert advice to everybody?”

“Only to certain people,” she says coyly, “Like those named-- what’s your name again?”

“Bellamy,” he says, looking more and more amused by the second.

“I only give out my expert advice to those named Bellamy,” she says airily and he laughs.

“Well I guess I’ll just have to take you up on that expert advice,” he teases.

“I’m always right,” she nods, serious.

He does end up ordering what she recommended and ends up almost licking the plate clean, just like she did the first time she had it, and Clarke smiles victoriously.

“See?” she preens smugly, “Told you I’m always right.”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t let it get to your head,” he says as he clears away his plate too. “You know, I never got your name,” he says when he comes back and she hesitates for a second.

It’s not like people don’t know who she is. There are pictures of her father in the port and statues of her ancestors littered throughout the town. Clarke is the princess. Of course people know her, but not many of them recognise her in the plain clothes and lack of an entourage and it’s an advantage that she likes to use to its fullest. People treat her differently when they find out she’s royalty which is why she doesn’t go around introducing herself. After all, it’s not like Clarke is a common name.

Still, Bellamy is looking at her expectantly, so she lifts her chin a bit as she says, “Clarke.”

If he recognises the name, he gives no indication, flashing her the same easy going smile he’s been giving her all day.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you. You and your food recommendations have been the highlight of my day so far.”

“Glad I could help,” she says, feeling her cheeks warm.

“Maybe tomorrow you could show me another one of your favourite spots?” he half says, half asks.

She tries to bite back her grin. “I’d  _ love  _ to.”

* * *

 

The wedding is set to take place roughly three weeks after the details of their alliance is sorted out. It will be hosted in Illyria since Clarke is to be their new queen, but before that there’s the engagement/farewell party thrown in Arkadia.

Clarke stomach churns the whole day through, barely saying a word as she was prepped and plucked and scrubbed. No one else knows of the relationship between her and Bellamy, no one she can turn to. And for all her years of etiquette training, there was never a class teaching her how to deal with being married to her ex lover.

She’s thankful that the ball is more of a diplomatic one than an actual engagement party. Her betrothed is preoccupied for most of the night, talking policy with other leaders and noblemen from the region. Meanwhile, Clarke is left to rub shoulders with the wives and the topics of  conversation almost made her wish that she was stuck with Bellamy. At least then she’d just be surrounded by an uncomfortable silence.

“You’re lucky your husband is going to be handsome,” Lady Cartwright whispers lasciviously to her behind a gloved hand. “It makes it all the world more bearable at night,” she giggles, eyes darting to her own husband, a stout, balding man with a pot belly.

The other ladies around her cluck like chickens and Clarke is left to fend for herself as they debate which of royals are the most desirable. Unfortunately for her, Bellamy seems to rank high on almost everyone’s list.

It makes her hate him even more.

Eventually she does have to face him, and he seems just as pleased about it as she is when he comes over to ask for her hand in the next dance. The gaggle of ladies behind her chuckle and squeal amongst themselves and she forces herself not to roll her eyes.

“Your majesty,” she says, curtseying before taking his hand. He holds it like he rather be grasping a dead fish.

“Princess.”

The dance in silence for the first half of the song, keeping up with each other’s movements seamlessly until Clarke decides to try her hand at conversation.

“You look nice,” she says, keeping her eyes firmly trained on his shoulder.

It’s not a lie necessarily; he’s wearing a pair of properly tailored trousers with a white shirt tucked into the waistband and a jacket with its edges delicately embroidered with golden thread. The questionable facial hair from before is gone now but his hair is gelled back, making the angles of his face seem harsh and unforgiving and Clarke has the sudden urge to run her fingers through it, muss it up so that his curls shine through.

“Thank you,” he says with a dip of his chin, “So do you.”

“I look like a cake,” she grumbles, referring to the layers and layers of pink and orange taffeta that she’s been stuffed in for the night, and she swears that his lips twitch.

“And a delicious one at that, I’m sure,” he says easily, before spinning her. The edges of Clarke’s skirts brush against his ankles.

The complement-- at least she’s fairly certain it’s a complement-- takes her by surprise and she tries to school her face into a neutral expression by the time she faces him again.

“You’re the talk of the town tonight,” he says. There still isn’t much emotion in his tone as he speaks to her but at least he  _ is  _ speaking to her this time. Progress.

“I can say the same of you,” she says, gripping his hand a little bit tighter. “Lady Cartwright is just about ready to leave her husband for you.”

“Sounds like a political nightmare,” he says, though she does catch a glimmer of a smile. “Besides, she’s not my type.”

“Oh?” Clarke says, intrigued. In the background she can hear the last few lines of the song playing out but she makes no move to acknowledge it. “And what is your type?”

They’ve slowed to an almost stop, just swaying on the spot, Bellamy’s hand on her waist and the other firmly grasping hers. He looks her up and down, slowly, and she can feel his eyes lingering on  _ certain  _ areas. It’s the first time since their engagement has been announced that he’s displayed any sort of interest in her and the attention leaves her skin flushed and something warm coiling low in her belly.

After such a pronounced pause he licks his lips and steps back. “Unmarried women,” he says before bowing, “Thank you for the dance.”

Clarke can barely remember to bow back before he walks off, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

She only dances with him once more before the night is over though this time he doesn’t bother to say a word. Clarke tries to engage him in conversation more than a few times but when he won’t even attempt to answer her ‘how’s the weather like in Illyria this time of year?’ she gives up and they suffer in silence for the rest of the song.

It’s amazing how he can go from seemingly almost  _ flirting  _ with her to completely ignoring her existence within the span of an hour. Clarke wants to bash in his face with a skillet.

The rest of her remaining time in Arkadia is a whirlwind spent sorting and packing her belongings as she decides what’s important for her to take to her new home. In the end it turns out to be a lot of art supplies and anatomy books more than dresses and fineries.

Her wedding day creeps up steadily, and soon she finds herself on a ship with her parents and their advisors as they make the journey to Illyria. It takes roughly two days by ship to get to the country and when they finally arrive on its shores, it’s already evening and the sky is painted purple.

The castle has prepared a feast for them of course, to mark the start of the festivities, but Clarke begs off. It’s no secret that boats don’t agree with her and she’s taken to her room before even greeting her soon to be husband.

It’s a blessing in disguise if she’s being honest. She already has to spend the rest of her life with his insufferable ass.

Unfortunately she can’t hide for long because the next morning her lady escorts her down to the dining room where Bellamy is already seated, pouring himself a cup of tea.

“Your majesty,” she greets him, dipping into a low curtsy. One of the servants pulls out the chair nearest to him and she grits her teeth.

“Princess,” he nods. “I heard you were unwell last night.”

She nods. “Yes. Unfortunately sea travel isn’t my most favourite of things.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, though he sounds nothing of the sort. “Let it be known that your most delightful company was missed last night.”

“Well I am sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s alright; it led me to see that you find these sort of things…  _ beneath  _ you,” he says delicately as he helps himself to some more eggs.

She feels her jaw drop open. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your mother has the same affliction and yet she made herself available for last night’s events,” he explains, stirring his tea before taking a sip. He meets her eyes. “I can only determine that your absence was due to the fact that you consider these kind of things a waste of time.”

“Or  _ maybe _ ,” she starts through gritted teeth, “I neglected my duties because the prospect of vomiting into the chamber pot for the rest of the evening was more desirable than  _ your  _ company.”

He smiles at her and it gets her even more enraged.

“I’m just letting you know that I missed your company that’s all,” he says easily as he butters his toast. “No one else quite makes me want to simultaneously bash my head against the wall and strangle myself to death with a cravat.”

“Fuck you, Bellamy,” she says, low, conscious of the servants standing in the corners, out of sight.

He leans forward, bracing his forearms against the table. “You already have, Princess,” he says, a dark smile stretched across his face, though there isn’t a single trace of humour to be found.

She leans back like she’s been slapped and Bellamy continues to butter his toast, acting as if he didn’t just say  _ that. _

“Don’t forget we have a meeting with the florist at ten to finalise the centrepieces,  _ sweetheart _ ,” he says, popping an orange wedge in his mouth. “And then we’re having lunch in the kitchens so that the chefs can show us the menus they’ve laid out for us.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “There’s nothing more riveting than spending time with you,  _ honey _ .” Bellamy just smirks as he steals a berry from her plate.

“Great,” he says, pushing back from the table, still chewing. “I’ll see you later, princess.”

“Yeah, see you, dickhead,” she mutters under her breath before viciously biting into the slice of toast he slid onto her plate without her noticing.

Ten o’ clock comes and goes and Clarke doesn’t budge from her room where she was sketching. No one comes to fetch her either.

The rest of the week passes in the same way; Bellamy informs her of whatever last minute wedding preparations are on the agenda for the day, she pretends to be interested about it, they snap and snipe at each other and then she holes up in her room drawing or sketching or painting for the rest of the day.

Her mother is the only one to express any sort of disapproval since she’s the one having to fill in. It turns out that Bellamy has also been absent from these meetings but it’s much more acceptable for the man to find these events trivial. She’s supposed to be playing the part of the blushing bride, throwing herself into choosing the place settings with gusto.

“Honestly, Clarke, you could at least  _ pretend  _ to care,” her mother admonishes her one afternoon as she tries to get her opinions on the bouquet. “This is your wedding. You only get one.”

“Really? Oh, I’d thought this was just an overly dramatic way of celebrating the alliance,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I don’t care about this wedding. I’m only doing it because it’s what is  _ expected  _ of me. It makes sense for you to plan the wedding. I’m marrying him because of  _ you _ .”

Queen Abigail purses her lips. “Your very lucky that King Bellamy is an honourable man. Not many men would sit back and let their wives completely ignore their duty to the household, much less a  _ king _ .”

“Yeah, well, that’s more because he wants nothing to do with me than him being honourable,” she grumbles before jumping with a squeak as her mother pinches her.

“You will say nothing of the sort, least of all in front of the Illyrian king,” she hisses. “You will smile during the ceremony, dote on him during the reception, and when he comes to you in the night you will smile and spread your legs and give him an heir.” She looks at her disdainfully. “And hopefully a male one at that. I pray that you never bear him a girl child as headstrong and impertinent as you.”

Clarke pulls a face. “Married life sounds grand,” she deadpans. “Really, I can hardly wait to be some baby-making airhead wife.”

Her mother just sighs and looks heavenward, whispering a prayer to the gods.

Clarkes wedding day dawns cloudy. It’s the end of winter, veering on spring, the time of year that the weather can be the most unpredictable. It’s expected to rain later which she was told is auspicious but she finds that doubtful.

The wedding is later in the evening so she expected that she’d have the morning to languish about by herself, embracing her last few hours as a free woman. However, she finds herself being woken up at an ungodly hour by her mother and her lady maids to begin preparing for the ceremony.

She’s allowed to eat breakfast-- half a grapefruit, some porridge, and a small cup of the bitter coffee that Illyria produces. She would never admit it, especially to Bellamy of all people, but it was so much better than the weak, watered down version she got back in Arkadia.

After, she’s hustled away to the bathroom where she is divested of her nightgown and is then proceed to be plucked and waxed and scrubbed until she felt like her skin was going to fall off. The pain is slightly relieved by the mix of milk and honey they rub on to her skin in the bath and then she’s rinsed and dried and given a robe to wear while another set of ladies come in to see about her hands and feet.

“All of this seems entirely unnecessary,” she tells her mother.

She just shoots her a baneful glare. “Some part about you needs to attract the king and it’s certainly not going to be your personality.”

It stings, just a little, but she refuses to give her the satisfaction. Instead, she just flashes her a toothy smile and says, “But I have a such a  _ sparkling  _ personality.”

Her mother just sighs.

It doesn’t take long for Clarke to realise why she was woken up so early. The ceremony starts at three, which means she needs to be ready by two. Her hair alone takes almost two hours to get done, being put up in some overly complicated updo with far too many twists and braids. She can already feel the hairpin headache lurking in the periphery.

By the time she’s deemed wedding ready Clarke is exhausted. Her hair is pinned up and her face is all made up, including a heavy dusting of rouge on her cheeks and lips that are painted candy pink. Her dress is a mass of white lace and ruffles with a trail so long that she’s genuinely worried that someone-- namely herself-- would end up tripping on it before the night is over.

All in all she’s hungry, irritable, and hot and the worst of it is still yet to come.

“You look wonderful,” says Queen Abigail as she escorts her down to the chambers where her father is waiting. They have pictures to take and the royal artist is already waiting with a pad of paper in hand to start sketching.

“Remember,” she says as she straightens Clarke’s crown. It’s from Arkadia, delicate white gold wrapped around diamonds. “Always smile and always agree with your husband. It makes these marriages so much easier.”

Clarke just nods, throat gone dry.

It’s really happening.

She really is marrying Bellamy Blake.

God, she’s not sure if she wants to throw up or pass out.

She doesn’t get to do either of those things because soon enough, the doors open and her father gives her his arm to take. 

The ceremony itself is a bore. As royals, both she and Bellamy have to observe Arkadian and Illyrian customs respectively which means the actual wedding ceremony, the one they commit themselves to each other, doesn’t occur until much later, closer to sunset. Until then they have a series of rites and rituals that they have to trudge through, sometimes with each other, sometimes by themselves.

Bellamy does not smile or say anything when he sees her. His face doesn’t light up, he doesn’t tell her she looks beautiful, he doesn’t do  _ anything  _ that she’s read about in the books.

If she’s being honest, the whole thing is just  _ awkward. _

The great hall is packed with people she doesn’t know or hasn’t even heard of before today, the vows are fake and manufactured and the priest’s voice gets grating after the first hour. Even the kiss is awkward despite her and Bellamy sharing several in the past. This one just feels like the two of them bumping mouths together because they had no other choice.

But it’s done.

It takes a whopping four hours but it’s finally over.

Clarke now has a husband.

A husband whom she can’t stand the slightest.

* * *

 

_ City of Light- 2 years ago _

She ends up spending more time than anticipated with Bellamy, learning him in pieces as the days go by.

She learns that he’s part of the Illyrian army, deployed here for the next couple of weeks though he can’t tell her the exact reason. She learns that he has a slight nut allergy after his face gets all puffy when she shares her peanut ice cream with him that one time. And she learns just how  _ devastatingly  _ charming and handsome he can be when he tries.

Not that he needs to try much with her. Clarke was intrigued the minute she set eyes upon him.

“So what else is there to do in this town besides stuff yourself?” he asks as they walk up the main road one afternoon. They’re eating ice cream again-- chocolate for her and strawberry for him-- and his is melting faster than he can eat it. Clarke hides a laugh as she watches him try to lick up his palm.

“Honestly? I don’t really know,” she shrugs. “People come here for the beaches I guess? But I’ve been and they’re really not all that.”

“Not really all that, huh,” he teases, “Someone should pitch that to the Arkadian king to include in the next tourist brochure they put out.”

He means it in good fun of course, but still she can’t help but stiffen at the mention of her father. Bellamy doesn’t exactly know that she’s the princess; or rather, she hasn’t told him and he hasn’t asked.

It’s not that-- people tend to treat her differently when they find out she’s royalty, and she doesn’t want that to happen between her and Bellamy. She likes their childish banter and the way he’s always stealing a bite of her food and how he always makes fun of her for being the most indecisive person  _ ever _ .

She does eventually laugh it off with him, though a beat later than expected.

“Seriously though, what do you do when you’re not showing up to harass me,” he asks, grinning when she tries to elbow him in the gut.

“Not much. I mostly lie around my aunt’s place and read or paint or something. I only ever venture into town when I want a reprieve from all of that.” She looks at Bellamy, making a show of looking him up and down. “And, well, the company of course.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel special,” he says, bumping his shoulder into hers.

“One of many, useless talents,” she nods soberly, “Employing the validation of  _ men _ .” He bumps into her again except this time Clarke is ready for it, jabbing her fingers between his ribs.

She thinks it’s the end of the conversation as they walk down the street, silently slurping at their ice creams when Bellamy says,

“Well if you really don’t have anything to do, we’re having a bonfire tonight. At the base.”

He’s not looking at her when he says it, instead staring determinedly at his sad, melting ice cream cone and Clarke can’t help but smile at how awkward he’s being.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You can come. If you want to, of course. It’s up to you,” he blabbers on and she hides a giggle behind her palm.

“What time is it?” she asks. “I’ll have to let my… aunt know.”

They hash out the details between them and by the time they circle back to the main square of the town, he’s holding her hand.

It feels like progress.

It does take a little convincing on her part so that her guards let her go out at that hour but she manages, and at sunset she’s walking back to the square by herself where she finds Bellamy already waiting.

He jumps up when he spots her, running a hand through his curls, and he’s just so  _ cute _ .

“Hi,” he says when she gets closer.

“Hi.” She smiles at him.

“Hi.”

“You already said that,” she points out, amused, and he blushes a little, ducking his head.

“Right, uh yeah,” he says. “You look-- nice.”

It’s clear that he wanted to say something a bit more than  _ nice  _ and she understands why. Clarke actually tried to put in some effort into her outfit, wearing a navy blue dress with a neckline that’s just a bit too low for the royal palace but just right for getting her attention. She even attempted to pin her hair up in a crown braid, though that’s more because one of her most noticeable features as a princess is her long blonde hair. She’s just being careful, that’s all.

“Thank you,” she nods, cheeks turning pink with pleasure, “You look nice, too.”

He looks the same as always, except maybe a little more put together but it still stands true. Clarke always thinks Bellamy looks nice.

They stand there smiling at each other maybe for a bit too long and they’re startled out of the little bubble they’ve built around themselves when someone accidentally knocks into Bellamy.

“Um, shall we?” he asks, offering her his arm, and Clarke beams as she takes it.

“Yes, we shall.”

The bonfire is already in full swing by the time they get there and she doesn’t want to say that they made an entrance, but there is a significant amount of good natured catcalls and jeering sent in their direction until Bellamy gets them to quit it.

“You seem popular,” she teases while he fetches her a drink.

He snorts. “More like everyone likes making fun of the boss,” he says.

Her eyebrows raise. “Boss?”

Even in the dim lighting she can see the flush that colours his cheeks. “I may be the officer in charge for this particular mission,” he says, seeming a bit uncomfortable talking about his position. “General Bellamy Blake.”

“General huh?” she teases, “Look at me hanging out with the big boys.”

“Yeah, it’s a real hell of a time,” he deadpans and she laughs again.

As far as the rest of the night goes, it’s pretty nice. Most of his men are already pretty inebriated by the time they get there and Bellamy is only close to a few, whom he introduces her too.

There’s Miller and Murphy, and Emori, who she’s surprised to find among all these men, but they’re good people and she likes them well enough even though she still thinks Murphy is kind of weird.

She doesn’t get drunk as the night goes by; Clarke is only allowed to drink wine back home and here she’s introduced to beer and lager and ale, all of which are okay if only a little bitter for her tastes. Bellamy doesn’t drink much either, sticking to water like her.

They sit near the bonfire and talk, and he shows her how to properly roast some fruits and even some candy that someone has managed to scrounge up. She ends up with melted sugar all over her fingers, leaving them sticky.

When it’s time to leave, Bellamy insists on walking her back to the square. She doesn’t tell him where she’s staying, and it’s still early enough that there’s a fair amount of people milling about that she’s not too worried.

Plus the deal that she cut for herself between the guards involved them waiting for her there anyway.

He shows her the more clandestine exit from the base, through a thicket of trees and Clarke likes the feel of her hand in his as he tugs her along.

“I had a nice night,” she says, taking care to not trip over any branches, “I would hate for you to ruin it by getting me murdered in the woods.”

Bellamy huffs. “You’re not going to get murdered and this barely even counts as woods,” he says, and he’s right. She can still make out the flames from the bonfire on one side and the sounds from town on the other.

Really, there are more opportune spots to be murdered other than here.

“Still,” she says, pushing a branch aside. “I had fun.”

“So did I,” he says, coming to a stop. There are no roots or branches in this small square of land and she finds herself standing rather close to him.

“Thank you,” she says, “For inviting me.”

“You’re welcome,” he nods, “Thank you for coming.”

He still is very close, smelling of sea salt and lemon, and he still is holding both of her hands in his. It would be very easy to lean up and just… 

“Can I kiss you?” she asks, almost whispers, and sees the bob of his throat in the darkness as he swallows.

“I’ve been waiting on you to ask the entire night.”

She doesn’t get to reply to that because then he’s sweeping her up in his arms, pressing his mouth firmly against hers.

Clarke hasn’t kissed a lot of people in her time. There was Finn of course, and a sweet girl who worked in the castle’s gardens, but Bellamy is the best by far. He’s gentle, but not overly so, sucking on her bottom lip and taking his time kissing her, as if there’s nothing more he’d like to be doing at this moment.

His hands stay firmly on her waist, even as he gently pushes her back against the tree, worrying her lip with his teeth and she sighs. She could just kiss him for  _ hours _ .

But they don’t have hours or even that many minutes remaining, and they eventually slow down until they’re just trading languid pecks, until he finally pulls back, letting his forehead rest against hers.

“I had a really,  _ really  _ nice night,” he murmurs, eyes still closed, and she laughs.

He steals one more kiss from her before they’re off again, hands tangled between them as they walk down the main street.

“Goodnight Clarke,” he says when they finally stop in the centre of the square.

“Goodnight Bellamy,” she says, and he presses a kiss to her cheek before leaving.

Clarke doesn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night, and when she lies in bed, it’s him that she thinks about, his hand in hers, his lips pressed against her own, his smile, his hair, his freckles…

She maybe likes Bellamy. A bit too much but she doesn’t care.

She’s  _ happy _ .

* * *

 

The reception is another lavish affair and Bellamy looks just as uncomfortable as she does with all the extravagance. Probably even more so. At least Clarke was used to it having grown up with this sort of lifestyle.

“I never thought I would be contemplating stabbing myself with a fork at my own wedding,” Bellamy grumbles next to her as some noble uncle from his father’s side goes on about some anecdotal story that she highly doubts ever happened.

“I have,” she says and he snorts.

“I never thought my wife would be finding me so abhorrent on our wedding day either,” he says, the word  _ wife  _ sounding clumsy in his mouth. She can’t blame him. Clarke is having trouble adjusting to the fact that she’s now married and that her husband is  _ Bellamy _ .

God, that butter knife is looking appealing right now.

“Yes, well, I never thought that my husband would look like an ass and have the mannerisms of one, too,” she seethes.

He merely inclines his head towards her, lifting his eyebrows. “I’m the poorly mannered one?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“ _ Yes. _ ”

“Hmm.” He pauses to serve himself some of the nearest dish and Clarke’s heart-- and stomach-- gives a pang when she realises it’s the fish she recommended to him all those years ago.

He offers some to her and she neglects to take it, her appetite suddenly sated.

“You really shouldn’t be tossing those words so casually, princess,” he says, taking a sip of his wine. “After all, glass houses and all that.”

She doesn’t deign him with a response.

(She does however kick him under the table and judging from the way he sulks for the rest of the reception, it gets her point across.)

There’s still a million toasts and a million more speeches followed by the most awkward dance of her life, and by the time it’s all over it’s early morning and Clarke just wants to  _ sleep _ .

She wishes that was the end of it, that she could just go and get out of this uncomfortable dress, let down her hair and go to bed but the night had only just begun for her.

The servants take Clarke to what she assumes are Bellamy’s quarters. They’re different from the ones she’s been staying at this past week, located in what she knows to be the royal wing of the castle.

She doesn’t get a good glimpse of the room as the servants hustle her into the bathroom but from what she can see it seems very impersonal, cold.

The bathroom is huge, larger than the one she had back in Arkadia. There’s a giant tub in the centre, built into the ground and an actual shower in the corner that she’s just itching to try out.

The entire room is steam filled and the servants hustle her to the tub where the water is hot but not uncomfortably so. She tries not to be shy about undressing in front of them but all shame flies out the window once her leg is grabbed and lifted to the ceiling. From there she’s covered in a coarse vanilla scented gel and scrubbed down until her skin looks brand new, then she’s dried and lathered in a sweet smelling lotion that makes her want to sneeze.

She’s dried off and the servants take time to let her hair down, brushing through it gently while she sits there in nothing but some frilly underthings and she tries not to be too awkward about it.

They wrap her in a short silky nightgown with flimsy straps and a neckline that makes her blush. She’s never worn anything like this before, choosing the comfort of cotton over anything pretty.

She’s left alone in the bedroom after this, hearth lit and hair mussed around her shoulders and she feels her stomach churns as she sits on the bed, back straight and hands folded in her lap as she waits for her husband.

She’s nervous.

It’s not that-- she’s slept with Bellamy before, on the island, before they knew of each other properly, before he broke her heart. She knows how he is in bed.

But now they’re  _ married _ .

It’s supposed to be different for royals. You’re supposed to at the very least find them tolerable enough to get on with the proceedings. And while, at some point, Clarke may have held a certain affection for him in the past, it’s all gone now leaving nothing but stomach turning nausea every time she’s forced to remember that this is part of her duties to him.

_ ‘... when he comes to you in the night you will smile and spread your legs and give him an heir...’ _

Her mother’s words ring in her ear and she repeats it like a mantra. Knowing Bellamy he’ll completely ignore their sordid past and approach this like a gentleman. She’ll just have to lie there and take it for maybe fifteen minutes max.

So she waits.

She waits, her leg jiggling up and down due to nerves for the first ten minutes or so, and then she starts to get impatient, standing up and beginning to pace back and forth. The room is large, giving her more than enough room to display her annoyance at his tardiness.

Eventually she gets fed up of pacing and decides to snoop around the room. It’s quite bare for a royal. There’s a large bed in the centre with a table on either side and a bell to ring for a servant. There’s a large armoire and an even larger closet and a desk where someone has taken the time to lay out her art supplies.

Of course, the more and more she snoops around, the less inclined she is to believe that the room belongs to Bellamy.

The armoire and closet are mostly empty besides the few dresses and gowns and other articles of clothing Clarke has brought with her, and the desk drawers contain nothing but a few sheets of paper and some ink. Of course, the part that gives it away is the fact that the shelves hold nothing other than her books and if she’s remembering correctly, Bellamy loved reading. He had a book wherever he went. Surely even with his own personal library and study he would have a few books hidden away in his bedroom.

This is not her husband’s bedroom.

This is  _ her  _ bedroom. Clarke’s. The new queen of Illyria.

Almost an hour has passed and he still hasn’t shown up.

It irks her and, even more so, embarrasses her.

How  _ dare  _ he, her own husband, abandon her on their wedding night.

She knows that they aren’t meant to fool anyone with their sham of a marriage but the least he could do is pretend to have some interest in her but no. He wouldn’t even share a bedroom with her like most royals do.

It’s anger that blazes in her chest now, burning brighter than the hearth the servants lit before leaving her alone, and Clarke grabs the duvet off the bed and wraps it around her shoulders.

She is going to find her husband.

Whether to drag him here or give him a piece of her mind she doesn’t know as yet, but she pulls open the door to her rooms and starts her trek down the unfamiliar hall.

This wing of the castle is mostly empty, devoid of guards and servants alike. Clarke wraps the sheet tighter around her body as she pads barefoot down the hall. It’s chilly in here and the flimsy slip she was put in does nothing to combat the cold, having to resort to wrapping a layer of bedding around her shoulders instead as she couldn’t find a robe. Or an actual nightgown.

Eventually at the end of the hall she spots a sliver of light slipping through the bottom of the doorframe and she’s sure that she’s found Bellamy’s quarters.

She doesn’t even bother to knock, just barges right in and flings the door open before stopping in her tracks.

It’s clearly a small study, his actual bedroom more than likely lying behind the double doors at the other end of the room, but Clarke doesn’t pay it any attention. No, all her attention is focused on the man in front her who’s hunched over a desk scribbling away on a piece of parchment. He hasn’t even changed out of his wedding outfit as of yet, just ditched the jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt.

“What the hell are you doing?” she asks, staring at him from the doorway.

He barely even looks up. “Writing a letter. Obviously.” He signs the bottom of it with little flourish and then glances at her with a slight smirk. “Surely they taught you about letters back in Arkardia, right Princess?”

“I am your queen now,” she responds coldly, letting the door thump shut behind her. “Your equal. And you will refer to me as such.”

His expression darkens. “Of course, your  _ majesty _ ,” he sneers. “Would like me to bow every time you enter a room? Or how about get you your own personal herald to announce your comings and goings?”

Anger sears through her and she steps further into the room. “What will it take,” she starts, walking towards him, “For you to stop speaking to me like I’m some sort of arrogant, impudent  _ bitch _ ?”

Bellamy stands, his face completely blank as he caps the bottle of ink. “Maybe for you to stop acting like one.”

She reels back like she’s been slapped. “How dare you--”

“Oh, I do dare,” he snaps. “I do dare because I may have wanted this wedding just as much as you but at least I didn’t skive off all my meetings because I was too busy sulking like a petulant  _ child _ .”

“My mother said you weren’t ever in attendance for a single one of those meetings.”

“I didn’t have to be in attendance to make a decision. I’ve made the executive decision on everything with respect to this wedding all while juggling my duties, Princess. It’s about time you learn to keep up.”

Her cheeks flush, a mix of anger and shame, but she keeps her chin raised. “If you care so much about duties then why are you here, writing a letter of all things and not in my rooms.”

Bellamy pauses, blinking, and then a wicked smile pulls across his face. “Is that what this is about?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. “Is the princess mad because I didn’t fuck her?”

“I’m  _ upset _ ,” she says through gritted teeth, “That I was held down by a barrage of strange women who all plucked and scrubbed me like I was to be the prized turkey for dinner, because this is my  _ duty _ , what is  _ expected  _ of me, just for my husband to find a letter more interesting than the prospect of being in my bed.”

“Yes, well, not tonight honey, I have a headache,” he simpers and Clarke wants to claw his eyes out.

“You arrogant  _ bastard _ ,” she seethes, thumping at his shoulder with a fist as her cheeks flare red. 

“Oh. I’m sorry, your worship. How have I offended thee now?” he asks with a roll of his eyes and god, she wants to slap him.

“Of course I’m offended!” she sputters, “I just sat in my room for almost an hour waiting on you to take me to bed. As is customary.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,  _ princess _ ,” he sneers, looming over her, “But I only take on willing bedfellows as I have no desire to fuck someone who possess the vigor of a dead rat.”

Embarrassment and anger courses hotly through her veins and she finds herself blinking back tears. She abruptly ducks her head so that he doesn’t see. She doesn’t want him to know just how much that statement stings.

“Do you take me to be a fool?” she asks lowly.

Bellamy lifts a single eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Do you find me so undesirable that you’re going to invite a  _ whore  _ into your rooms on our  _ wedding night _ ?” she snarls and he almost takes a step back.

“Where on earth did you get that idea-”

“You just said it,” she snaps. “You just said that you have  _ no desire _ to sleep with me, tonight or any other night, so what am I to believe then?” she continues, jabbing him hard in the chest.

Bellamy catches her hand and tugs her close, so close that she could the thundering of his heart, just like hers, the rapid up-down of his heaving chest, just like hers, and Clarke doesn't know if she's flushed from anger or something else.

“Trust me princess,” he growls quietly, and she’s suddenly intimately aware of his mouth mere inches from hers, “I would never  _ think  _ to do you the disservice.”

She doesn’t know who moves first, if she stretches up or he leans down, but suddenly they’re surging together, his mouth hot against hers and it’s nothing like the joke of a kiss from earlier. Instead it’s harsh and bitter and rough, sharp teeth nipping at lips and fingers that press hard enough into skin to leave a bruise.

Bellamy kisses like he argues, like he’s always trying to prove his point, taking control almost immediately and pressing her up against the desk as he kisses her lips, her neck, her throat, even stopping to suck a bruise into the soft skin behind her ear.

Clarke lets him of course. She’s never actually put up a fight when it comes to being manhandled by Bellamy Blake.

In fact, she quite likes being manhandled by Bellamy Blake.

The hands on hips pull her closer to the hard planes of his body before sliding down and behind to grab at her ass. The sheet she was wearing as she darted through the halls lie in a sad, crumpled heap at their feet and he kicks it aside.

He squeezes her ass again, this time tighter, and that’s the only warning she gets before he lifts her onto his desk.

She squeaks, legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and she feels the hardness trapped beneath his trousers rub against her centre and she lets go a breathy moan that has him pulling back.

He looks wrecked.

His pupils are blown wide and his hair is a mess-- she doesn’t recall doing that, but then again she was gripping on to something rather tightly while he busied himself with her neck-- and he still stands between legs, hands on her hips, still gripping tightly.

She’s pretty certain that she doesn’t fare much better. The skimpy nightgown does little to hide her flushed skin, her heaving chest, her puckered nipples that point through the thin material. Bellamy is drinking all of this in of course, eyes roving hungrily across her features like a man who’s been lost in the desert for days and she’s a fresh drink of water.

When he licks his lips, hands going to spread her legs further open, she stops him.

“No,” she says, grabbing his wrist. This was too intimate, too personal. She doesn’t want to be reminded of the Bellamy Blake she used to know. This one-- her king-- is different. He shouldn’t treat her as though everything is the same.

His eyes cloud over with confusion. “But I thought you wanted--”

She slides down from the desk as gracefully as she could and looks up at him. “What I  _ want _ ,” she says slowly, turning around so that her back is to him. She looks over her shoulder, staring at him right in the eye. “Is for you to  _ fuck  _ me.”

She doesn’t break her gaze as she bends forward, placing her forearms firmly onto the wooden desk in front of her.

His throat bobs as he swallows but he doesn’t take long to get with the programme, his hand trailing down her spine.

“I suppose you like calling the shots,” he says as he unbuckles his belt. “Ever got told no in your life, princess?”

“Many a time,” she nods, ass wiggling impatiently in the air. His hand jerks and his fingers dig into her flesh as he tries to stop himself from touching her more than needed. “However the person telling me no is usually, almost always, in the wrong.”

“I believe that,” he snorts, dropping his pants. “Little miss know it all.” He slowly pulls down her underwear, exposing the pink flesh of her cunt to him and she blushes. “If you’re to be an effective queen then sometimes you need to know when to shut up.”

His fingers trace up her folds, swirling her wetness around her clit, and she finds herself leaning into it.

“That’s rich coming from you,” she breathes as he continues to tease. “You’re the biggest loudmouth I know.”

His fingers thrust inside her, though just barely, only teasing her entrance and she can’t help the moan that slips out.

“Shut up, Clarke,” he grunts, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah?” she asks through clenched teeth, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Then _ make me _ .”

His eyes harden when he sees the challenge written on her face, and he pushes further down until her torso is almost flush against the cold wooden top. She can feel him line himself up with her, feel when his fingers leave her skin to no doubt stroke his own, and then, without warning, he slides in, a mix of pain and pleasure.

Bellamy barely makes sure that she’s alright before pulling out and thrusting back in, and she’s glad for it. Checking in would mean that he cares.

They find their rhythm quick enough, a rough back and forth and soon there’s no more talking, just their harsh pants, the occasional muffled moan, and the slap of skin against skin.

He spits at where they’re joined, his hand creeping to spread it around him, around her, to play with her clit as he speeds up. It’s filthy and yet methodical, exactly what Clarke wants from him and she moans when his fingers dig in harder into the flesh of her hips. She wants to wake up with bruises there in the morning.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t last as long as she wants it to. Bellamy still knows her body, still knows what she likes and what drives her crazy and soon she’s coming, arms stretch out on the desk as he rubs unforgivingly at her clit.

She really does try to hide her moans from him, but doesn’t quite succeed when her orgasm rips through her leaving nothing but static buzzing in her head.

He comes right after she does, when she’s still just floating in the world, with his hips stuttering a low groan being wrenched from his throat as his head rests on her shoulder.

They stay like that for a moment, two bodies pressed together, bent over the desk as they struggle to catch their breaths, before he slides out. He wordlessly offers her his shirt to clean up with and she takes it.

The entire world is blurry, and she feels the stress of the past day just crumble inside her.

Clarke isn’t exactly sure how she makes it to the bed, how she fixed her clothes and put back on her underwear and got beneath the covers, but it’s fine. The minute her head hits that pillow she falls asleep.

She wakes in an unfamiliar bed to sunlight flooding into the room and no sign of her husband.

His side of the bed doesn’t even look  _ slept  _ in.

Clarke tries not to feel offended as she makes herself presentable for the servants, but it’s hard. How dare he just leave like that?

She sneaks back into her room, washing and getting dressed in actual clothing before heading down to breakfast. Bellamy isn’t there either, and annoyance starts prickling beneath her skin.

No one speaks to her as she moves through the palace that morning. Sure, the servants are nice enough but, for the most part, she starts feels like an intruder in her own house. 

Bellamy doesn’t show up for lunch either, and Clarke doesn’t have that much of an appetite so she spends it sitting by the window that overlooks the rose garden sipping at her soup.

After afternoon tea she slips down the rose garden to sketch and she’s flanked by a pair of guards. She’s followed wherever she goes and when Clarke challenged them, she was told that they were just following the king’s orders.

It takes everything that’s in her to keep the rage bubbling under the surface contained.

By the time dinner rolls around she has more than a few choice words for her new spouse, but just as he did with breakfast and lunch, he doesn’t show up here either, leaving her alone.

She’s almost shaking with rage as the sun sets and she takes another walk around the castle to calm down. 

The same thing happens the next day. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Clarke wakes up, alone in her rooms, she has breakfast alone, and lunch alone, and dinner alone, and then takes a late evening walking alone. Sometimes she tries to pick at conversation with the servants or the guards assigned to her that day, but that’s a dead end, and sometimes she tries to be creative, taking her art supplies out into the garden to draw or paint.

She hasn’t seen her husband since their wedding night and it’s been almost a week since that.

She’s even tried to sneak into his rooms but each time it was either empty or locked, and she didn’t feel like yelling her lungs out to try and get his attention.

It’s on one of her lonely evening walks by the riding grounds that she finally spots someone that she  _ knows  _ and she almost sobs in relief.

“Miller!” she calls out, grabbing her skirts up so she could trot over quickly.

His mouth twists into a sour expression before smoothing over and he bows. “Your majesty.”

It stings a little but she brushes it off for the most part. It feels like a lifetime has past since their paths first crossed and Clarke’s eyes rove hungrily across his features, trying to figure out what was different. He’s broader certainly, and looks older too.

“How are you?” she asks, “I didn’t know you work in the castle.”

“Uh yeah, Bellamy gave me a title after he-- became king,” he says lamely. “I just stopped by to see him.”

“Did you?” she asks, “See him, I mean?”

“Yes,” he nods slowly. “He’s tucked away in his study.”

His  _ study _ .

Of  _ course _ .

She should have known that if her spineless husband wanted to hide from her, he would do so in his stupid  _ study _ .

“Thank you, Miller,” she says before picking up her skirts once more and not running per say because she was taught better than that, but still walking brisk enough to garner a few stares.

She has a vague idea of where his study is, having been given the tour on her first day here, but it still takes her a few tries until she gets the right door.

And when she does, she lets him have it.

“You pathetic, miserable  _ coward  _ of a man!” she yells, and, in a fit of rage, flings her shoe at him.

He dodges it of course, but he doesn’t expect the second one and it nails him directly in the chest, the sheer absurdity of it all sending him staggering.

“Princess,” he nods once he’s recollected himself. “Did no one ever teach you that it’s rude to throw things?”

“Shut up,” she barks, slamming the door behind her, “Or else the next thing I throw is going to be you. Out a window.”

He’s clearly taken aback by the vitriol lacing her tone, but after a moment he’s back to being his smarmy self, smirking at her. “ _ Can _ you really throw me out a window?” he asks, curious. “I’m almost twice your size.”

God she  _ hates  _ him.

She’s here, trying to express her anger at him for being a dick, and he’s  _ joking _ about it.

She wants to have him flayed.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” she hisses and his eyebrows climb up his forehead.

“Oh, I’m the one taking the tone?” he drawls, “I don’t know if you noticed but you’re the one who barged in here and started yelling like a crazy person. You threw a  _ shoe  _ at me.”

“Because you’ve been  _ ignoring  _ me.”

“I wasn’t under the impression that our union was one that involved constant attention. I’ll try to do better, honey,” he says with a roll of his eyes.

Clarke wishes she had another shoe to pelt at him. Or something heavier. Like an anvil.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” she says lowly, stalking up to him so that he’s forced to look at her. “You may have only agreed to this marriage because it benefits your people and that’s fine, it benefits Arkadia too, but you also got  _ me  _ in the midst of all the negotiations.” She straightens her spine, standing tall, chin pointed out just the slightest. “You made me queen. And I don’t know what preconceived notions you might have of me, but I am not some annoying plaything for you to just toss aside when you get bored.”

Her chest is heaving after that little tirade, and Bellamy is looking down at her, something akin to respect glittering in his eyes.

“You’re right,” he says grudgingly, and Clarke feels a beam of pride fill her. It’s quickly dashed as he continues, “But be that as it may, I’m the ruler of this country. I actually have things to do, my actions have direct consequences on my people.”

“They’re our people now and I can help you,” she insists.

“No.”

“I’ve been training my whole life for this! I’ve read up the books and helped my father deal with countless cases, sure I can do the same-”

“I said  _ no _ .”

Clarke blinks. “Why the hell not?”

“Just because you’re married to me doesn’t mean that they’re your people,” he says, a humourless smile tugging at his mouth, “Quite the opposite in fact; part of our army being forced to move to Arkadia has left plenty unhappy families. I’m sure they’d love to wring that pretty little neck of yours.”

“Them or you?”

“Both but for entirely different reasons,” he allows before sweeping past her while Clarke stands there gobsmacked. 

“I’m not changing my mind; you’re not leaving this castle and you’re always going to have a guard with you wherever you go. And do put on your shoes,” he adds as he lingers in the doorway, “The floor is cold. The last thing I need is for you to become even more insufferable because you’ve gotten a cold.”

He walks out, leaving Clarke alone in the study, a mix of anger and confusion churning through her bloodstream.

The next morning Bellamy is there at the table for breakfast.

She blinks when she first sees him, thinking that she must still be dreaming, but no, this is real and he’s actually here.

He lifts his cup in acknowledgment of her entrance and dips his head mockingly but doesn’t say anything else otherwise.

Clarke stays quiet too, and she sits at the other end of the table. She can’t be certain but she’s pretty sure he’s laughing at her and she purses her lips.

“Pass the butter please,” she asks, and he smirks at her.

“Here you go,  _ sweetheart _ .”

She grits her teeth as she accepts it, wishing that she was closer, so that she could kick him.

“Thank you, husband dearest.”

Bellamy, still smirking, just leans back in his seat and he even has the gall to wink at her.

Clarke almost chokes on a piece of bread.

The rest of the week goes exactly like that. And so does the next week. And the week after that. And the one after that. And many, many other weeks to follow.

It’s nice having a routine.

She always has at least two meals a day with him in the smaller, more personal dining area, and they always find the most inconsequential things to bicker about, more usual than not something that popped up in his court over the past few days.

“I don’t think that man should have had to give them a new cow.”

“He was stealing milk from them for months. It’s the least he could do.”

“Well maybe,” she blows her hair out of her face, “Or maybe you should have let him keep the cow and give them back twice as much milk he stole.”

Bellamy looks amused. “Then he’d barely have any milk to sell.”

She shrugs. “A crime deserves a punishment. But he’s a farmer. He’s not exactly well off. And buying a cow is going to bite into his savings big time.”

“Well maybe he should have thought of that before he started stealing milk,” he grumbles, but she sees him write down her suggestion in his book and has to bite back a smile.

Bellamy still doesn’t let her sit in fully when he’s dealing with issues from his people, but he does genuinely try to listen to her advice, even if he doesn’t agree with it most times.

The only thing he hasn’t budged on is letting her roam the streets of Illyria as she pleases.

“It’s dangerous for you,” he admitted one evening after she brought it up for the umpteenth time. “And if anything happens to you, the alliance between our countries dies, too.”

“I’m not that fragile,” she huffs, crossing her arms, and he shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, princess.”

“Let me come with you,” she begs, “When you go next Saturday to the town hall. Let me come. There won’t be that much people, and you’ll have your guards and-”

“Enough, Clarke.” He holds up a hand and, humiliatingly, she feels the burn of tears behind her eyes.

“Please,” she says softly, “I’m not a bird and yet I’ve been cooped up in this palace for months. It’s driving me insane, I just-- please, Bellamy.”

He closes his eyes as though he’s in pain and lets his shoulders slump forward in defeat.

“Fine,” he says, voice just barely above a whisper and she almost shrieks with joy.

“Thank you,” she says, grinning as she reaches over to squeeze his hand.

“But there are rules,” he says. “You can’t wander off on your own and you need to have at least four guards on you at any given point.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little excessive?” she asks and he stares at her.

“No, as a matter of fact, I don’t,” he says, standing up. “Do you know anything about the clan wars? How they’re progressing? Last week the head of the Sangedakru’s leader showed up on Arkadian shores. My men were able to fend off the spies that the Ice Nation have sent but soon that won’t be enough.” He’s looking directly at her, and the grave seriousness in his voice shakes her. “The clans know that this is a sham marriage. They know that if you die, the alliance dies. Even my own people aren’t happy with the way I’m handling things right now, so no. I don’t think four guards is excessive for your little trip to the village. Take it or leave it, Clarke.”

She swallows thickly. “Fine.”

They spend the next hour or so hammering out the details between them. Clarke tries to veto all of his rules but Bellamy isn’t having it. They argue. A lot. But he still gets his way in the end.

Saturday rolls around quick enough and Clarke is nervous, pacing back and forth in the entryway as she waits for him. She’s wearing a plain dress and plain shoes and her hair is simply just pulled away from her face. It’s how she dresses most days in the castle but Bellamy assures her that it works for this event and that it would help the crowd warm up to her.

“You’ll be fine,” he tells her as they begin the walk down into the city. “People will talk but I highly doubt anyone would actually try anything.”

“Still,” she says, slipping into royal mode as they walk out the gates. She’s never been so far from the castle before. “I’ve been their queen for over four months now and it’s the first time they’re seeing me.”

“To be honest, they didn’t expect to see you at all.”

“That doesn’t make things better-”

“Relax,” he says softly, just for the two of them, and she can feel the goosebumps raise on her arms.

“What about the other thing?” she asks under her breath. “The-- clan wars.”

Bellamy purses his lips. “You’ll be fine,” he maintains, and it sounds like he’s reassuring himself too.

People are staring at them now as they walk pass, mumbling amongst themselves. There is a fair amount of glares and one man even shouts at them causing her to reel back, but for the most part everyone seems more intrigued that anything else.

Bellamy’s hand bumps into hers and she jerks like she’s been shocked.

“Relax,” he says again, gently twining their fingers together. It suddenly hits her that it’s the first time since their wedding night that he’s touched her and that’s what she dwells on for the rest of the walk.

The town hall itself goes better than she expected. She’s introduced and even receives a halfhearted round of applause as she sits next to Bellamy on the small raised dais. There’s barely enough room for two chairs on it and their elbows brush every time he moves.

Bellamy is in his prime during the meeting and she begins to see what the people see in him. He’s persuasive and relatable and above all else, charismatic. She knew that he wasn’t the conventional kind of royal, born into it like she was, but this serves to show just how different the two of them are.

It doesn’t last too long, maybe about an hour at most, but then Bellamy is pulled into the throng of people to talk to and shake hands and play the part of a politician.

She’s pulled into the ring too, though not many people really want to talk to her. The disparaging glares continue and she hears people whispering to themselves as she walks pass, but she focuses on Bellamy, his hand in hers.

It’s not something that she means to notice as she walks through the crowds but she can’t help it. A wet cough over here, a shoddily bandaged hand over there. More often than not someone seems to be afflicted with some kind of ailment, and it sets the wheels turning in her head.

She keeps the idea to herself for now though, letting Bellamy have his moment. There’ll be plenty of time to explain it to him later, when it’s just the two of them.

As they walk back to the palace Bellamy takes her hand again, holding it loosely in hers. It says something that she doesn’t pull away and lets it stay there, swinging in between them.

“That went well,” he says, when the castle gates are finally in sight.

She nods. “It did. Honestly, I expected a bit more… tension.”

“There still was a fair amount calm down,” he says wryly, “You don’t have  _ that  _ much support yet to stage a coup.”

“There goes my plans for tomorrow then,” she intones, and he laughs.

The guards hold the castle gates open for them as they walk in but Bellamy holds the door open for her when they actually get inside and it makes her smile.

“Can I ask you something?” she says while they wait for the servants to bring out their dinner.

“Knowing you, you’ll ask irregardless of my answer, so yes.”

She ignores the slight jab, pressing on. “Why don’t they like me? I mean, I get that I sort of came out of the blue but as far as I know, the alliance hasn’t been too demanding on them.”

Bellamy sips at his soup slowly, mulling over the question. “I guess to you it doesn’t seem like it’s that demanding. And I don’t,” he hurries to say before she can properly open her mouth, “Mean that you don’t care. I just mean that you’re sort of in the same position.”

She blinks. “I am?”

“Yeah. This alliance forced you to leave all your family behind and move to another country to serve it. Same for a lot of the families out there,” he explains. “Your father wanted our help to broaden his army. In exchange he’s sending us supplies: food and medicine and the like. But for most people, they’d trade the extra bread and meat to have their sons and daughters back home, safe and sound.”

“I guess I never thought of it like that,” she says slowly, thinking about it. 

“I don’t blame you,” he says, though not unkind. 

Their dinner is served and she suddenly finds herself quite ravenous. Nerves made it hard for her to do anything other than choke down a slice of dry bread at lunch time and she’s only just realising that she’s been starving this entire time.

“Speaking about medicine,” she says, after she’s sated her stomach for the time being. They have cake and fruit for desert and Clarke is picking at hers. Meanwhile Bellamy is almost done inhaling his slice.

“What about it?” he asks, and she hesitates.

While it’s not unheard of for women to be interested in the sciences and even practice some of them, it’s still frowned upon. She could be doing so many other things with her time instead, like producing another heir or knitting a tea cozy for her husband. And while she knows that Bellamy is an unconventional royal, even this might be going a bit too far to ask of him.

“Clarke?” he prompts, and when she looks up at him he’s already looking at her with open, earnest eyes and it calms her.

She takes a deep breath in.

“I wanted to know if the library has any texts on it. I’d… I’d like to learn more.” She says the last part almost daring him to contradict her but instead Bellamy just smiles.

“That’s right,” he says with a snap of his fingers. “Harper told me you had an interest for anatomy. I was supposed to show you the castle’s collection ages ago.”

“Really?” she asks, eyes lighting up. “You don’t think it’s… weird? Because I’m a woman”

He shrugs. “I think the whole thing is weird, poking around your insides and your organs and whatnot. Makes me feel queasy. But if you think you can handle it then go for it.”

“Wow,” she breathes before catching herself and blushing, “I mean thank you.”

“It’s no problem.”

“One more thing,” she adds on, quick. “When I was there earlier I couldn’t help but notice that a lot of your people have something going on and I was wondering, what’s the state of your healer situation?”

“Well they’re there, I can tell you that much,” he says, frowning, “But anything more than that I’m afraid is kind of murky. It’s unfortunately not as regulated as it should be.”

She bites her lip before offering, “Well, maybe I can help with that.”

“You want to help abolish the whole health system and build it back from the ground up?” he asks, eyebrows raised and she nods.

“Yes. I think that would work rather nicely,” she says, “My first official duties as queen.”

He drops into a mocking curtsey, “Your majesty.”

Clarke doesn’t even try to hide when she kicks him in the shins, laughing as he swears.

It’s nice she thinks, this newfound camaraderie between them. It’s still a bit awkward at times but she’s learning to work with it.

Reforming an entire country’s health system takes time, and a lot of effort, she’s quick to find out. She ropes in Bellamy to help her, of course, not because he’s the king, but because he’s kind of a nerd about history, and in turn he ropes in a series of others to help him help her.

There’s Harper, one of her lady maids who it turns out knows a fair deal about midwifery, Jasper and Monty, a pair of chemist from the main apothecary that most doctors get their medicine from, and Raven and Emori who aren’t part of the system itself, but byproducts of it with her leg and her hand respectively. With Emori comes Murphy who Clarke vaguely remembers as the creepy guy from the City of Light. He apparently used to spend a lot of time at the medic tent when he was in the army and picked up a lot.

“I’m the closest thing to a doctor this sorry bunch knows of,” he drawls right before he and Clarke get into the most effective ways of treating a cold.

She divvys up the work, having the others mostly gather information on what the situation is like on the ground, with the people. Still, the brunt of the work falls on her-- after all, it is her project-- and by extension Bellamy because at this point, almost six months into their marriage they’re almost friends. Kind of.

“Did you get that book I asked for?” she asks she he sits back down on the couch next to her. She’s been spending a lot of time in his study too, harassing him while he looks up laws and comes up with possible amendments for them.

Bellamy grabs the topmost book from the stack he returned with and reads, “ _ The Physician’s Complete Herbal Guide: the medicinal and occult properties physically applied to the cure of all disorders incident to mankind. _ ” He snorts. “Sounds riveting.”

“Sounds  _ educational _ ,” she says, and swats him.

He swats her back and then moves out of her reach so she can’t retaliate because he’s clearly a coward.

“Have fun researching your milk wort,” he says, and she throws a balled up sheet of parchment at him.

“It’s called milk  _ thistle  _ you heathen and it’s good for your liver.”

“I don’t even know what my liver does,” he gripes and then holds up a hand when she opens her mouth to explain. “I don’t want to know either.”

Clarke just harrumphs and goes back to the sketch of the odd looking flower, writing it’s name and benefits next to it.

Ever since she took on this journey two months ago, she’s learnt that Illyria’s entire health system is a mess. It’s not standardised and anyone can go around calling themselves a physician who claims that crushed dung beetle is the right drug to treat your heart.

That’s how she came up with the idea of a book.

As of right now she’s calling it the Illyrian Handbook of Clinical Medicine, where she painstakingly sorts through hundreds of all medical books that Bellamy has stored in his library and combines all the information into one neat, succinct book.

It’s working out so far. Even Bellamy is impressed though he’d never admit it.

“Did I tell you that I have plans for a hospital too?” she says a little while later as she tries to stifle a yawn.

The look Bellamy gives her is so fond that it makes her insides melt.

“Of course you do.”

“It’s a really great idea,” she insists, and he stands up.

“I’m sure it is but right now I think an even better idea is to get you to bed,” he says, helping her up.

She follows him out of the study and to their bedrooms, but she makes sure to complain the entire time. She wouldn’t be Clarke if she didn’t give Bellamy shit for everything that he did.

It turns out that she’s more tired than she realises because in the time it takes for her to get to her room, she’s almost dead on her feet, falling asleep on herself. 

“Come on princess, you need to get changed,” he coos softly, brushing her hair back.

Clarke glares at him blearily. “I don’t  _ have  _ to.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t want to sleep in a corset all night. You haven’t made any claims of wanting me dead in a while and I have a feeling that this might reverse that.”

She groans, flopping down on her bed. “Why can’t you do it?”

Beside her Bellamy visibly stiffens. “Do what?”

“Take it off.”

“Clarke…”

“Come on Bellamy, please,” she begs, “I can’t even take it off by myself. I usually have to call Harper for help.”

“I can call Harper.”

“ _ Bellamy _ .”

He huffs. “Alright fine, sit up. And take off… the rest of it.”

Clarke grins to herself and shimmies off the gown she was wearing leaving her in just a slip and the corset.

She’s not thinking straight, clearly, her sleep addled brain making her do all sorts of nonsense, but she doesn’t grasp the fact that this is a bad idea until Bellamy is right behind her, his hands on her shoulders. She can feel the heat radiating from his body and her mouth goes dry.

This is a very bad idea.

She’s not sure if she’s imagining things or if Bellamy really is intent on torturing her, but time seems to move slower and each brush of his knuckles against her bare back sends a shiver down her spine.

Thankfully the slip she’s wearing has a low enough back that she needn’t get completely undressed, but it still makes her ache with want when he undoes the string by her lower back.

“Here,” he says at last, voice hoarse. “All done.”

She turns around to face him, and finds that his irises have been reduced to a thin circle of brown around his pupils and that two spots of pink have appeared high on his cheekbones, under his freckles.

“Bellamy…”

“I should get going,” he says, though he doesn’t make any move to. Their knees knock together. Clarke doesn’t feel sleepy anymore. In fact, she feels the complete opposite, every single nerve ending in her body has come alive.

It’s been almost three years since she first saw him but her hands still itch to draw him. She doesn’t realise that she’s tracing the contours of his face until his hand catches hers.

“Clarke…”

“Stay with me,” she whispers and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” she asks, “I’m your wife.”

He flinches. “That’s not--”

“You can spend one night in my bed, Bellamy. It’s not going to kill you.”

He breathes out slowly, forcing himself to open his eyes. “Okay,” he says, soft. “But only to sleep.”

She doesn’t ask why it needs clarifying. She doesn’t want to know.

Clarke puts out the candle and creeps under the covers while he undresses. A moment later the bed dips and he lies down next her, leaving a good six inches of space between their bodies.

Silence.

It’s not awkward, not really; she’s exhausted and probably won’t be able to hold a proper conversation if her life depended on it but she still can’t quite fall asleep.

Still, she tries though.

“Bellamy?”

“Yes?”

“How’d you become king?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and she feels when he shifts in bed.

“My mother was a seamstress. A talented one. The old king was taken with her and, well, I happened. It was supposed to be a secret; they weren’t married, plus  _ he _ was already married so it’s not like we could have stayed in the castle anyway. So he paid my mother a handsome salary each month and when he realised that he was growing old without having produced a viable heir, he took me under his wing.”

“So you’re a--”

“Bastard? Yeah.”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“It’s fine Clarke, I’ve heard it before.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” she murmurs, looking up at the ceiling to avoid watching him. “You’re a great king. This country is lucky to have you.”

He doesn’t say anything for a while and she doesn’t dare look at him.

Finally he says, “Thank you,” and they slip into silence once more.

She’s not sure how long she lies there, staring up at the ceiling, the two of them lying in silence. Like before, time seems to be moving differently.

Still staring up at the ceiling as she whispers, “Sometimes I miss you.”

He doesn’t say anything and his breathing is deep and even enough to make her think that he’s fallen asleep and then--

“Sometimes I miss you, too.”

She’s not sure why it makes tears spring to her eyes-- maybe it’s because a part of her still can’t believe he ever cared for her, not after what happened between them, while another part can’t help but wonder  _ what if? _

The tears leak out of the corners of her eyes and slowly drip down the sides of her face disappearing into her hairline.

She isn’t sure when she falls asleep-- or if she falls asleep for that matter. Everything seems to sort of blend, one thing into another. Did she dream Bellamy sleeping beside her, snoring, like she did a hundred times before, or is it actually Bellamy sleeping beside her and snoring? She doesn’t know.

But despite the fitful sleep, he still manages to wake up before she does and she can feel him stirring next to her.

They migrated towards each other in their sleep, and she ends up cuddled up on his chest with his arms around her. It’s a nice place to be if she’s being honest.

Clarke is stuck in that limbo, the one where she’s not really awake but also not really asleep and she feels as he slowly pries himself out from beneath her, trying his best not to wake her up. She stays still and lets him have this. A moment later she can feel him brushing the hair off her face and then, quick as lightning, he presses a kiss to her forehead before finally leaving.

She stays in bed a full forty five minutes after he’s gone and when she finally makes it to breakfast, he’s mostly done, just sipping his tea as he flips through his morning documents.

He nods at her the same way he did that very first morning they had breakfast together and she nods back.

They don’t talk about it.

Where it can mean a number of things; their past, their wedding night, the night they spent curled up together in the castle. There’s a lot to choose from.

But Clarke wishes that they  _ would _ .

Days pass them by and Bellamy doesn’t spend anymore nights in her bed.

Still, there’s a shift in their dynamic after that night. He becomes much more tactile, much more open with her.

He flirts a lot.

And Clarke, being the fool that she is, flirts right back.

“How are you not good this?” he asks, watching as she pricks her finger yet again, the third time since she’s started. “I thought healers stitch people up all the time?”

“Well I’ve never stitched anyone up, have I?” she grumbles, sticking her finger in her mouth to soothe the pain. She ignores the way Bellamy looks at her. “My mother would have a conniption if she saw me poking around someone’s innards.”

“Still, it’s not like it’s  _ hard _ ,” he says, taking the stack of papers from her and showing her once again how to bind them together using needle and thread.

It took her about three months, but she’s finally finished after going through all the medicinal books in the library and making notes on them. She ran to show Bellamy the moment she was done and insisted on him teaching her how to bind it herself.

Which led them to here.

“Easy for you to say,” she snorts, settling down to watch him. There’s something hypnotic in the way he he handles the thread, the graceful movement of his hands.

Not to mention that there’s always been something about his hands that had the heat low in her belly burning bright. They’re  _ fascinating _ .

“Do you want to give it another shot?” he asks after he corrects her mistakes and Clarke shakes her head.

“No thanks. You can finish it.”

“Lazy,” he says, fondly, and pinches her ankle. She kicks out at him, just narrowly missing his face.

It’s nice.

The bedrooms are still off limits for the two of them so Bellamy’s study has turned into their room of sorts. It’s where they come to trade stories about their day and joke around. Clarke brings him biscuits that she tried to bake and Bellamy pretends that they’re delicious even though they both know she put too much salt in them.

She has a  _ crush  _ on her husband.

How  _ stupid  _ is that.

“Here,” he says, handing her her newly bound book.

She grins, tracing her fingers over the ridges of thread. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Next time though, if you’re trying to bribe me into doing something, I would prefer something a bit  _ sweeter  _ than biscuits,” he tells her, and the way he’s looking at her fans the flames in her belly, making them grow brighter than before.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she says, trying not to shift in her seat. Her thighs are clenched tight together and she refuses to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

He glances outside the window and licks his lips. “You should head to bed.”

“I will. Goodnight Bellamy.”

“Goodnight Clarke.”

She does head to bed, does change into her nightgown and slips beneath her sheets, but her skin feels like it’s drawn too tight, as though there’s an electric current buzzing beneath it, and suddenly it’s too hot for covers.

It’s because of his damn hands, she thinks, toying with the hem of her nightgown. His hands and his stupid little comments, knowing that they’d get under her skin.

Clarke doesn’t do this often; women aren’t supposed to pleasure themselves, it’s looked down upon as a sin almost as bad as sex out of wedlock. But she’s alone and filled with want and she  _ knows  _ just what it’s like to come on Bellamy’s fingers, his mouth, his cock.

_ ‘That’s it baby,’ _ she imagines his voice softly tempting her in her ear as her hands trail up her inner thighs,  _ ‘Come on now.’ _

She goes slow, drawing it out just like he used to do once upon a time ago, teasing her clit, teasing her entrance, only finally giving in when her sweat soaked body is shaking and her muscles are begging for release.

When she comes, it’s Bellamy she sees behind her eyelids, smiling crookedly at her with a constellation of freckles dotted across his face.

* * *

 

_ City of Light- 2 years ago _

“Stop staring at me,” Bellamy grumbles, blindly trying to swat her with a pillow and Clarke laughs as she dances out of its way.

“But you’re just so pretty,” she teases him and then squeals when he pinches her inner thigh.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of a brat?” he asks, rolling over so that he pins her to the bed. She squirms a bit but it’s not like she’s complaining.

“Only you,” she says brightly and he snorts.

“Clearly I’m the only one who sees you for the she-devil that you are,” he murmurs against her jaw before kissing her, slow and languid, like everything else they’ve been doing this evening.

It’s been a full two and a half months since Clarke has been in the City of Light, two since she started talking to Bellamy and one since she started sleeping with him.

It’s a pretty sweet timeline, she has to admit.

“Stop that,” she giggles as he kisses his way down her neck, “I need to be home before anyone realises I snuck out.”

“Some rules are meant to be broken,” he hums against the underside of her breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers and she sighs.

“You make a compelling argument,” she says, sounding a little breathless as she grabs him by the ears and pulls him back up, “But I’m still going to have to say no.”

His hand creeps up her thigh. “Are you sure I can convince you to stay a little bit longer?” he pouts and Clarke glances at the candle on the bedside table, burnt almost halfway down. It’s only about an hour past midnight. Surely she can spare him some time.

If her parents knew that she was sneaking out of her aunt’s house to go fool around with some boy in the middle of the night, her mother would keel over.

“Alright, fine,” she grumbles and he smirks victoriously. She pulls him closer to her so that his mouth is just a hair’s breadth away. “But it’s only because you have some very  _ solid points _ .”

She drags him down for another slow, languid kiss, letting his hand finish its journey up her thigh and start teasing her with slow strokes.

She doesn’t mean to fall asleep afterwards and neither does he, but the bed is so warm and inviting with him in it. Plus, Bellamy gives the best cuddles. She’s just lucky that she’s a light enough sleeper that a falling branch wakes her sometime in the early morning. It’s dead quiet outside, no crickets chirping or roosters crowing just yet. The witching hour is what it’s referred to in all the books she’s read, that time in between night and dawn when you’re not sure what’s real and what’s not.

But more importantly she only has a few minutes before the earliest of risers in her aunt’s household begin to rise and she needs to  _ leave. _

She slips out of bed, waking Bellamy in the process and begins to search for her clothes.

“I’ll try and see you later,” she whisper yells as she hurriedly buttons the front of her dress. “Once I’m not murdered for sneaking out.”

Bellamy is still sprawled out on the bed, still naked as he watches her scramble to get dressed and he smirks. “Or you could just introduce me to your aunt. I’m fantastic at charming old ladies.”

Clarke pulls a face. “I’ll pass thanks,” she says, hopping up and down as she finishes put on her shoe. She leans over the bed and kisses him, short and sweet. “I’ll see you later.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to walk you back?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” she promises and he huffs.

“I don’t know why you keep denying me the chance to be a gentleman, first you don’t want me to meet your aunt, now you don’t want me to walk you home. I mean, come on,” he pouts.

“Poor baby,” she says, kissing him again. “Don’t worry, later when I come back you can be the biggest gentleman you want to be.”

“Yeah, yeah, get out of here before they lock you in the dungeon Cinderella,” he says, something soft glowing in his eyes as he watches her leave.

Ten minutes and a sudden fear that her lungs might give out later, Clarke is sneaking back into her bedroom. The watery light of dawn is just beginning to peek out over the horizon as she pulls her sheets over her and she sighs.

She doesn’t usually stay out this late, but then again, she doesn’t usually fall asleep with Bellamy Blake.

It was nice though, walking up together, to his sleep mussed curls and the soft kisses, the way he brushed her back and dropped a kiss to her crown.

Clarke falls back asleep in what feels like the wrong bed this time, dreaming of tanned skin and freckles.

She didn’t think she would feel this way again, especially not so soon after Finn, but she does.

In a way it’s different with Bellamy. With Finn she felt the giddiness of first love, the clammy hands and awkward pauses where neither new the right words to say. She felt like a brand new toy to be showed off and back then she thought why not, she liked being shown off.

It’s completely different with Bellamy.

With Bellamy she feels safe. There’s still some awkward pauses and clammy hands, but he makes her laugh and feel like a better version of herself.

With him, she feels loved.

Two weeks later, she finds herself back in Bellamy’s bed. This time they’re just kissing, in the middle of the day. It has promise to escalate further however there’s a sharp rap at his door before he can even take his shirt off.

He frowns and Clarke makes a sound of displeasure when he rolls off her.

“Impatient,” he says, tweaking her nose.

The knock echos through again and he sighs. Even when he’s supposed to be off the clock he’s never truly off the clock.

She doesn’t hear the conversation that takes place in the doorway, but Bellamy comes back into the bedroom frowning.

“Sorry babe,” he says, leaning down to kiss her one last time. “Duty calls.”

“Duty is always calling,” she grumbles as she slides out of bed and straightens her clothes.

“Yeah, I know, but rain check?” he asks, hopefully. “I’ll meet you in the square and maybe we can grab dinner or something?”

She grins at him and leans up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Sounds like a plan.”

He steals one last kiss-- a proper one-- from her before she leaves and Clarke goes back home smiling.

She decides to spend the rest of the day lounging around at home, painting some flowers, reading some books. When the sun starts to set she takes a bath and gets dressed for the evening, dabbing scented oils on her wrists and behind her ear and then goes to the square and waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

It’s almost midnight by the time she gives up and heads home, worry and something else that she can’t name churning in her stomach.

Bellamy never showed.

She knows that she can always pop down to the base to see if he’s okay but it’s not like him to skive off of plans. And besides, it’s late. She can always check on him tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes and she packs a bag for a day trip, intending on spending the day with Bellamy if she could. She’s got snacks, a book, and she even sneaked some of those chocolate biscuits that he loves so much.

Clarke once read that sometimes things are meant to happen.

She spilled tea all over her dress this morning and was forced to change, sending her late.

She decided to take the more scenic route to the base and pass by the port because she can’t be late twice and besides, Bellamy didn’t even show up last night. She could make him sweat a little.

And then lastly, the hat that she decided to wear that day almost blew off her head as she walking and when she turned to grab it, she saw them.

Saw Bellamy with a tall brunette, almost taller than him, standing far too close to each other to be just friends. She watches as he smirks at her and she laughs and though she can’t hear it, it still grates on her ear drums.

And then he watches as the girl leans in and kisses him. Her Bellamy. On the mouth.

She doesn’t stick around to see anything more, feeling sick to her stomach and her eyes are burning as she hurries her way back home.

When things ended with Finn it didn’t feel this way. She felt embarrassed by that. Stupid because she let a  _ boy _ almost ruin her life. She didn’t feel any heartbreak or despair or anything else people talk about when they talk about love.

Now it feels like her ribs are caving in on her chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak, hard to do anything at all.

By the end of the day she’s penned a letter asking them if she can come back home. It’s been three months and she misses them. It’s the first time she uses her rank as princess of Arkadia to get it delivered within the next twelve hours.

Three days later a boat arrives at the port to take the Princess back home. This time she doesn’t try to hide herself as the procession marches from her aunt’s house to the port. She doesn’t care who sees or who knows she’s the princess.

It takes all her willpower to not scan the crowd, looking for that head of messy dark curls and see him one last time. But she doesn’t.

And now she’s on a boat.

And she’s promised herself that Bellamy Blake is going to be nothing more than a distant memory.

* * *

 

“I got you something,” Bellamy says, still dressed in his winter things as he comes into her room.

Nine months.

They’ve been married for nine months so far and they’re still not sharing a room as yet.

Her eyes follow him as he undoes the buttons on his coat and shrugs it off, hanging it over her chair.

“You got me a present?” she asks, eyes light up as he pulls a small bag out of his pocket.

“It’s nothing big,” he says, coming to sit next to her on the bed, all warm and firm and lovely. “I just saw it and thought of you.”

The words shouldn’t make her heart flutter like that, but they do and she tries her very best to quash it.

Clarke puts down her notes, additions to her proposal to build an actual hospital in the town, and pulls the bag closer. He clearly tried to wrap it but gave up halfway through, and the thought made her smile.

It disappears when she sees the title of the book though, and the front cover, and her breath catches.

“Bellamy,” she murmurs, tracing a finger over the intricate drawing, “This is  _ gorgeous _ . Thank you.”

He shrugs, suddenly bashful. “You’re always going on about how the books in the library are pretty and you’re always upset that you can’t make notes on them so uh. Problem solved.”

She leans forward and kisses his cheek, quick, and he blushes. “Seriously, thank you,” she says, clutching the book to her chest. The notes on the bed crumple under her knees and she has to put the book down to pile them together.

“Would you like to see my proposal to the council thus far for the hospital?” she asks, holding out the stack of papers to him. It’s her turn to get nervous. This plan-- this entire project-- has been her baby since day one and while she believes she’s doing a good job, it comes as a surprise that she wants to please  _ Bellamy _ .

“I’d love to.”

He takes the notes from her, as well as her pen, and of course he has opinions about  _ everything _ . Clarke spends the better part of the night debating with him but doesn’t hide the fact that his input is golden. He thinks about things that she didn’t even  _ dream  _ about.

It hits her like a freight train as she sits here, arguing with him about how many beds they need and why it’s important to have a room dedicated to just cleaning their equipment.

She’s happy.

_ Bellamy  _ makes her happy.

It feels like a stupid revelation, being in love with your husband, but for Clarke it makes her catch her breath and view things in a different light.

Later, when he’s gone, taking her notes with him, she thinks about their past while in bed.

Clarke from three years ago loved Bellamy Blake and got her heart broken and Clarke, well, she doesn’t think she can handle a repeat of that.

So she stays quiet and she watches him, falling deeper in love with him as the days go by. She’s finding it harder and harder to stay quiet about it too.

When he comes home from trips and brings her little presents, little flowers and trinkets and even some beautiful paint brushes that one time, her first reaction is to say  _ I love you. _

When he joins her on her evening walks and holds her hand as he tells her what happened today in court and in the council chambers, she wants to tell him  _ I love you _ .

When he helps her come up with a successful pitch for the hospital plan and promises to stand behind her one hundred percent, she wants to say  _ I love you _ .

When it’s late at night and they’re sharing a cup of tea in his study, when he looks so soft and sleep ready, she just wants to crawl into his lap and say it over and over and over again.

_ I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. _

There’s only so long she can hide it however, and the end comes the day she’s invited to propose her idea of a hospital to the council of advisors and a panel of healers that have taken charge of treating the community.

At first, things don’t go well.

Clearly the healers would rather judge her on her sex than on her work and it’s right infuriating until Bellamy jumps in with some choice words. He flashes her a quick smile and a discreet thumbs up after he’s successfully shamed them into being quiet and  _ oh _ , she can feel the butterflies dancing about in her stomach.

But she presses on.

The entire presentation takes well over two hours to make as she outlines the pros and cons, the financials, the building plans, acting every inch of the queen that she is and Bellamy looks proud of her the whole way through.

The project gets approved of course, and they both manage to contain themselves until the council chambers empty. As soon as the door falls shut, Clarke is flying across the room towards Bellamy and he catches her, swinging her around in a circle.

“You did it,” he whispered to the crown of her head before pressing a kiss there and she pulls back, beaming.

“No Bellamy,” she says, gripping onto his collar so tight that her knuckles go white and pulling him close. “ _ We _ did it.”

And then she kisses him.

It’s nothing like the last kiss they shared, that one filled with too much hurt and anger and despair. Instead this one is hard, and blazing, and in that moment she tries to convey everything she feels for him through that one kiss. All the happiness, all the want, all the love,  _ everything _ .

They do have to pull back eventually, and they’re both panting as they do and Bellamy keeps his eyes closed, his lips still slightly apart.

“Clarke-”

“I’m sorry,” she blurts, stepping out of his embrace. “I didn’t mean to just spring that on you. I’m sorry.”

“Clarke-”

“I should go.”

“ _ Clarke _ .”

He grabs her by the wrist, stopping her before she can escape through those doors.

Slowly, Bellamy leans his head down, giving her ample time to turn away or tell him to stop.

She does not.

This kiss is reminiscent of their first kiss all those years ago, slow and exploratory. He has one hand on her waist and the other cupping her jaw, thumb rubbing it softly. There’s no rush with it, they have nowhere to be, and so they just take it easy, the whole world melting apart until there’s nothing but the two of them.

“Don’t apologise for that,” he says, a little breathlessly when he finally breaks the kiss. “Please don’t apologise.”

“Bellamy-”

“No,” he says, surprising her with the force at which he says it. “You don’t get to walk out just because it’s inconvenient or because you’re scared or whatever. Not again.”

She narrows her eyes at him. “What do you mean again?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” he says, bitterness lacing his tone. “Back in the City of Light, you knew I was in love with you and you got scared and ran off. You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I didn’t even say  _ goodbye _ ?” she repeats incredulously before snorting, “Oh, that’s rich coming from the guy who told me to meet him in the square for a dinner date and then just  _ didn’t show up. _ ”

“I had work!”

“Yeah? Was making out with whatever her name was at the port also part of work?”

He stops, freezing in his tracks. “You saw that?” he asks, screwing his eyes shut.

She nods, blinking back the traitorous tears that well up in her eyes. “I was coming over to check on you since you didn’t show the night before. I thought something was wrong and then I--”

“Clarke. I’m so sorry,” says Bellamy, stepping forward to comfort her. He rubbing his hands up and down her arms and her eyes sting even more.

“I’m sorry you had to see that but you have to know, it wasn’t what it looked like,” he tells her, trying to get her to look at him. “That was our contact, she was the one who warned us that the war was coming this way and that’s how we’ve been able to stave them off.”

“But she kissed you.”

“She had a crush on me. Trust me, this is one of the many, many times she’s tried to go out with me and needless to say it didn’t work out.”

Oh.

_ Oh _ .

“Clarke,” he says, trying get her to look at him. “ _ Princess _ .” He grabs her chin and forces her. 

He shoots her a weak smile. “I don’t think I’ve ever stopped loving you. Not even when three years have passed by or when we were forced to get married or when you threw your shoes at me.” He squeezes her hand before swiping away the stray tears that have spilled over and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“You’re it for me, Clarke Griffin, and I’m so glad you’re my wife.”

A sob escapes despite the hand she has pressed over her mouth and she hugs him.

“And I’m so glad you’re my husband,” she sniffs into his neck as he holds her, just as fiercely.

And then she pulls back and socks him in the stomach.

“I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you that I’ve loved you for months and you just… come up with it in a matter of seconds?” she asks, looking completely flabbergasted. 

“We really need to work on your communication skills,” he mutters into her hair, holding her close, and Clarke wraps her arms around him, too. At this height her head rests perfectly on his chest, right above his heart. “Really though, all of this would have been avoided if you would just  _ talk to me _ .”

“Shut up,” she grumbles before pulling him down for another kiss.

“Look at it this way,” says Bellamy, letting his forehead rest against hers, “We have the rest of our lives together to work on it. You’re stuck with me from now on.”

“Mmm, I’ve been stuck with you since we got married all those months ago,” she tosses back. “I’m definitely stuck with you.” And then pauses, a small frown muddling her forehead. “Or has it been a year?”

Bellamy laughs and leans forward, trying to steal a peck from her lips and they’re both smiling too much to even properly kiss.

“Months, years, whatever. I’m just glad you’re here with me now. Together,” he says, squeezing her hand.

Clarke smiles at him softly and squeezes it back.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [tumblr](http://hiddenpolkadots.tumblr.com) if you ever wanna scream about these losers


End file.
